And now the Devil of Rage which had been swelling within me gave place to a worse devil—the Devil of Jealousy—and I turned on the captain, who was also just about to slink away:— “Stop!” I cried out—I screamed out, I may say. “Who spoke to you, I should like to know? and who the dooce dares to speak to me in that sort of way?” says Clarence Baker, with a plentiful garnish of expletives, which need not be here inserted. But he stopped, nevertheless, and turned slouching round. “You spoke just now of Miss Prior?” I said. “Have you anything against her?” “What’s that to you?” he asked. “I am her oldest friend. I introduced her into this family. _Dare_ you say a word against her?” “Well, who the dooce has?” “You knew her before?” “Yes, I did, then.” “When she went by the name of Bellenden?” “Of course, I did. And what’s that to you?” he screams out. “I this day asked her to be my wife, sir! _That’s_ what it is to me!” I replied, with severe dignity. Mr. Clarence began to whistle. “Oh! if that’s it—of course not!” he says. The jealous demon writhed within me and rent me. “You mean that there _is_ something, then?” I asked, glaring at the young reprobate. “No, I don’t,” says he, looking very much frightened. “No, there is nothin’. Upon my sacred honour, there isn’t, that I know.” (I was looking uncommonly fierce at this time, and, I must own, would rather have quarrelled with somebody than not.) “No, there _is_ nothin’ that I know. Ever so many years ago, you see, I used to go with Tom Papillion, Turkington, and two or three fellows, to that theatre. Dolphin had it. And we used to go behind the scenes—and—and I own I had a row with her. And I was in the wrong. There now, I own I was. And she left the theatre. And she behaved quite right. And I was very sorry. And I believe she is as good a woman as ever stept now. And the father was a disreputable old man, but most honourable—I know he was. And there was a fellow in the Bombay service—a fellow by the name of Walker or Walkingham—yes, Walkingham; and I used to meet him at the Cave of Harmony, you know; and he told me that she was as right as right could be. And he was doosidly cut up about leaving her. And he would have married her, I dessay, only for his father the general, who wouldn’t stand it. And he was ready to hang himself when he went away. He used to drink awfully, and then he used to swear about her; and we used to chaff him, you know. Low, vulgarish sort of man, he was; and a very passionate fellow. And if you’re goin’ to marry her, you know—of course, I ask your pardon, and that; and upon the honour of a gentleman I know nothin’ against her. And I wish you joy and all that sort of thing. I do now, really now!” And so saying, the mean, mischievous little monkey sneaked away, and clambered up to his own perch in his own bedroom.